


The past tense of post-modern

by imladrissun



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, an angel redeemed, crowley rises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-08-05 17:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imladrissun/pseuds/imladrissun
Summary: The song says angels were dining at the Ritz, plural...





	1. Chapter 1

It happened on a random Saturday. Crowley was sleeping in, as was typical after the non-events of the recent averted end of world situation. After that, he planned on going to see Aziraphale at the bookshop, lounge around talking until he suggested they get dinner, hit the Ritz or some new sushi place, and/or feed the ducks. The order didn't matter, the company in question did. 

He woke to warmth that was somehow light and dry heat altogether, and felt pure. It wasn't a scourgifying type purity but a lovely, soft white comforter of being loved. For once, the snake in him did not feel cold. He could barely remember a time before his own Fall, but knew instinctively that this was how it had been before.

His actual misdeed had been that he'd wanted to wait out the conflict between the angels and Him to see what happened and who won. He was a hedge your bets type. Suffice it to say, that was not really looked kindly upon up there. 

And yet, he'd never really been a demon in the typical sense. He'd saved more lives than Aziraphale half the time, who had a policy of bodily non-interference with mortal events most of the time. He'd done little miracles that weren't technically evil -- when no one was watching, of course. 

Around Aziraphale he had always felt the need to insist that yes, he was evil. But it was rather tiring, spreading evil around. He'd much rather while away time sleeping, or listening to the angel talk about whatever book or issue he's on about, or drinking. 

He blinked suddenly. It had been Him, the upstairs Him that is, talking to him. Crowley knew all at once that he was an angel again. He just lay there, taking it in. He had not seen this coming, or known it was a possibility. He'd thought the only love he'd ever get was from Aziraphale, and that was it. 

Due to his status as Crowley's only friend [and person who cared about him], he'd never tried to truly upset Aziraphale. No tempting, not really, and no true fighting. Nothing cruel or vicious; he couldn't risk losing him. 

He was well aware the angel would be fine without him, lost in his books. Forever. He'd probably remember him once in a while, shrug, and get back to his books. Crowley wasn't under appreciating himself, he thought, he was being realistic. 

He was simply the only other etherea -- no, immortal -- being on earth. Of course Aziraphale wanted to talk. His only other option was calling some tight arse down from heaven to hang out, and that would be a drag, even the angel would think so. 

What would he think, he wondered. He didn't know what to think himself. What a change, and yet, he didn't feel overly changed. He still felt like himself. Just better: happier, deep down, and calmer too. Nothing drastic. At least he and Aziraphale would always be together, he mused, after the real end of all things. He'd been afraid of the apocalypse for that reason particularly, as well as the whole lack of Ritzes and wines and ducks. 

It was no surprise that His side would win, from above, but that meant he and Aziraphale would be forever separated. The angel would never fall, and he hadn't known he could rise until this morning. He had thought he would do anything to not feel lonely anymore. If G-, Himself up there, that is, had asked him, he would have said yes, take me back. I will suffer any torture to become holy enough for You. And for one angel in particular. 

An envelope lit into existence in his hand, and Crowley jumped, shaken out of his thoughts. It read simply

THAT'S WHY YOU'RE BACK WITH ME CHILD. THERE WAS NO TEST, BUT YOU PASSED IT.

He stared at it. It glowed back. He got dressed with a snap of his other fingers, and hauled himself out to the Bentley to speed over to Aziraphale's. The letter never left his right hand. [Despite being ethereal, it had become rather crushed in his grip.]

He forgot to check his eyes, put on his sunglasses, or realize he had a normal tongue now. He barreled into the shop, looking hysterical. Aziraphale looked up from his book on ancient Egyptian magic [it was more like a scroll, really] and knew instantly something was different. Crowley's aura was no longer silvery, cool and thinly metallic; it was closer to his. Very similar.

Crowley skidded to a stop in front of the angel, still clutching the letter. Aziraphale didn't need to see it to know what had happened; there was only one possible explanation. Apparently Jesus' redemption thing had been expanded to other beings as well. 

"Dear," the angel said quietly, and scooped him up into his arms. Crowley was too busy getting as close to hyperventilation as possible for an immortal who didn't need to breathe to really notice or react. They stood there for a few hours, while Crowley finally came back to his senses. He found himself all gathered up in a hug by his friend, who'd put his head on his shoulder. It was a good feeling. 

Aziraphale was weirdly flexible when it counted. In all other areas he was incredibly behind the times, unadaptable. He was the original square in many ways. And yet he always respected Crowley's desire to be rather 'bad', and had even gone so far as to agree with him when he claimed to have only evil desires and no knowledge of good. 

But then sometimes he'd get a glance from the angel that said otherwise. Wordless looks were fine once in a while, but thankfully there were no words. 

Eventually, the angel let go of him. It wasn't clinging if they let you do it for so long, he thought. "How about dinner, then?" Aziraphale said, and he agreed. He drove them there in silence. Why wasn't he saying anything? Crowley wasn't sure what he was expecting, just that he wanted to hear him chatter about anything, anything at all. 

He almost felt disquieted [or afraid, his traitorous mind suggested] but it was something on the back burner. Fortunately, Aziraphale was prepared to talk for an entire dinner, with only head nods and shrugs, and a few quiet sentences as help. Afterwards he shuffled them back to the shop for some post-dinner drinks. Crowley was glad for the familiarity of the shop. Even being out didn't feel the same as before. He hadn't realized he didn't have his sunglasses on at any point.

He'd, more consciously, that is, had no idea he'd be able to sense, and 'read', Aziraphale's aura like this--like he could now. The angel's halo was usually more of a aura or glow in general, and they were so close theirs' were overlapping. To have a little halo was to condense [for a moment] a part of your soul a bit.

He felt the full force of the angel's love for him; it was good. It was like some strange kind of pleasant pseudo-drowning. He felt submersed in well-being, pleasure, but most of all he just felt relief. Aziraphale knew and was still there. Nothing had changed between them. Well, nothing until after dinner, and after some obligatory drinking, when the angel had decided to subsume his holy aura into a little gold halo -- then summarily did the same to Crowley, who let him [despite not being entirely certain of what he was doing, he let himself be guided], and set the two golden circles on top of each other. 

Crowley immediately passed out. It turned out there was something better than driving, than drugs, than pleasure of any earthly [or fallen-ly] kind. It was that. When he woke, it had been all returned to normal, no physical appearing discs anywhere to be seen. But it had been like an intermingling of souls, somehow. Almost arresting in its intensity. 

Neither of them had ever been interested in earthly carnality, as it looked kind of gross and messy from the immortal perspective, but now Crowley was glad to think he had never bothered. It was so right, so perfect to have this alone and only with Aziraphale. It was one of the most intimate things one of their kind of beings could do. There were smaller actions, of course, but this was it, the closest you could get. "Angel," he whispered, finally awake but groggy and the being in question handed him a glass of water. He gulped it down. 

"Shall I still say 'dear', or something different?" Aziraphale said, kind of a propos of nothing in his opinion. Then he realized what he meant.

The angel had always called him 'dear', but now he could switch that and use 'angel' on Crowley himself. He didn't know if he cared for it; that was his special word for his friend. Yes, it was technically just literal, but it had stopped feeling that way a while ago.

Then, with a start, he realized that the question could actually be referring to his real name. The one used in heaven, before. Crowley didn't realize he hadn't answered now for a overlong amount of time, so Aziraphale continued for him. "I've always kind of liked Crowley as a name, personally," he admitted. "Not so much those other ones." He was referring to the Anthony J. part. As an angel, you didn't really have extra parts of your name like that. 

He never got to hear how the angel finished his one-sided discussion, because he fell asleep on the couch. It smelled like old paper, dust, and old books, which was somehow the most comforting smell in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, life went on. Being an angel was much less stressful than his previous job, Crowley mused. Heaven didn't contact him through bureaucratic channels; Aziraphale didn't seem to get any messages either, or at least ones he told him about. He had gotten a new apartment and moved all his plants to it first thing after the events of the almost world ending week -- priorities, you know. He wanted his plants, and himself, to be safe. 

Aziraphale came over to see the new apartment, but that turned into him sleeping over. Of course, as an angel, he didn't need to sleep and really almost never did. That didn't change now. He sat reading on the end of an enormous, plush couch while Crowley slept on a pillow beside his thigh. 

He'd picked out that couch specifically to sleep on, it was very wide and long, and very comfortable, a soft, cushy black thing. The angel acted just like he always did, and Crowley began to relax. The only thing that was different, really, was that he had the angel over to his new apartment all the time. His previous employers didn't contact him, and he felt relieved to think that if anyone called him from up there on the other side, they'd have to deal with Aziraphale first. 

[He'd heard him get calls before, hastily bolting back out the front door of the bookshop before the angel noticed him. Aziraphale often appeared to be busy trying not to curse the Metatron voice out. He was not very respectful to his co-workers. Some angels called once in a while to actually talk to him, but he always invented work he had to do just this minute and basically hung up on them.] 

Aziraphale was not the world's most friendly angel, especially to other angels. Humans were of little interest to him usually, unless they were writers. He was more of a passive, book-obsessed, faithful to the LORD [but not very many of His servants] type of being. 

It was weird to be able to touch holy water now, but Crowley's curiosity had gotten the better of him after a few days. He could touch anything holy, stand in extremely holy spaces with no side effects, and even commune with holy things... There were two ways to do that: the somehow X-rated way with Aziraphale, one on one, up close and personal, soul bared -- and the other way, the metaphorical bathing in God's light. 

Aziraphale had to show him how to do all those things, but had somehow made it sound like he needed help setting up himself. Crowley only realized afterwards that he must do this all the time, there was no need for him to fetch his candles, get out his particular tome that had a good kind of prayer in it to feel immersed in worship in holy light. 

It turned out praying was not like Crowley had imagined and more like taking ecstasy tablets with none of the bad bits. Aziraphale would say, every few days, "Fetch some candles from the back, would you? I want to find those matches I lost the other day," and they'd be off, doing some new and interesting heavenly thing. 

All of it felt amazing, but even better was that the angel never made him talk about it. They both pretended it had always been like this. Aziraphale brought out solid pieces of benzoin from different places, once a block from Sumatra, and it filled the air in a soft vanilla ambery way. 

Crowley started wearing his sunglasses again about of habit, as he found his now normal eyes strange to look at it. Somehow the angel's things found themselves scattered across his new apartment. He had a bunch of emergency books there at first, in case he stayed over, but then some of his other random things got left around as well. 

Crowley found a Regency silver snuffbox filled with matches behind one of his giant plants. He didn't say anything about it. 

After a few days when he'd come back to his senses, he'd expected the angel to do something -- call him by a different name, ask for his real one, tell him to do some blessings or good works. Anything really. But Aziraphale did nothing at all. Crowley had to admit, it was something he was the best at. He was great at staying the same and resisting change in some ways, but could morph into something new at the speed of light. 

He'd adjusted to Crowley's new status without so much as a murmur but wouldn't bother to remember the latest music Crowley tried to have him listen to [now that the Bentley let him have tapes of all kinds that stayed different, it was very diverse.] Neither of them made any mention of the Arrangement, but he was glad he'd never have to worry about his friend fighting him at the end of all things. Or being separated from him when the world was remade, someday

Hopefully a day really, really, far away. 

Other than a few little miracles for humans here and there, Aziraphale mostly just did the prayer rituals where you basked in the light of God. Crowley cracked a bible [not one of the angel's, he wasn't stupid -- just one he'd stolen from a cheap motel room, as he was too embarrassed to go to a library or something and get one] and tried to actually find anything he could about what angels did. 

Apparently all they did was sing [no thank you], offer incense [he could do that], and leading people in prayer or to God [that was okay if meant in a metaphorical way of being sneakily kind when people weren't looking.] He got kind of into seeing how people screamed with joy and reacted when they realized something good had happened to them. Crowley liked to do it in secret and watch their hysterical shrieks of happiness from a ways away. 

He felt like Aziraphale would be proud, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it. It was too embarrassing. He just got a kick out of it. He decided to look up his original name in some of Aziraphale's books when he was soused, and didn't find any ancillary information, so he summarily said to himself: I'll be the angel of plants, then. 

When Aziraphale made noises about wanting to read by himself, Crowley took himself off and worked on his little project: sending plants to people who would appreciate them, giving out scholarships to people who wanted to work in high profile, professional gardens, visiting random fancy gardens for fun by himself [he just liked that, really, and had done it for years sporadically; he still liked to shapeshift into a snake and slide around through them], creeping through the back rooms of nonprofits' deals and tempting people into giving more money for grain and essential varieties of similar, necessary plants. 

It was actually quite fun to tempt people into doing the right thing. You had to really get inside their head, manipulate them, and whisper the right things to them. Crowley considered himself an expert, and was just as successful at this new venture as he was before. He had just come home to his apartment after a day of forcing people to stop destroying the rain forests [while still providing an economic benefit package to people in the area who needed to get money from the jobs the destruction was actually creating], to find Aziraphale in his apartment. 

He pulled up short in the doorway. Crowley hadn't expected to see him there. He was still an odd sight in such a clean-line, sparse, apartment. "Angel," he said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. He liked to be suave when possible, but only sometimes achieved it. 

Aziraphale came up to him and dragged him over to a big, strange box on the counter. It was getting dirt all over the pristine black marble [it had specks of gold in it, he'd picked it out specifically because it looked amazing] but Crowley bit his [normal] tongue. "I found something, well I got it really, and I think it might help your little ferns in here."

Crowley just looked at him, nonplussed, but it was too late, as Aziraphale was taking something out of the box that burst into light. He covered his face out of habit, and then realized he didn't have to. The light was bright but soothing at the same time, like a pastel, soft white-gold glow. Inside the box, unwrapped from sparkling golden cloth was a harp that seemed to be made out of gold, in the style of the ancient psalters. 

"I just went up for a moment and asked Cecily if I could borrow one of her instruments because I found a passage about it summoning the wakefulness of growing things in a book I was looking at," the angel said, picking up the harp carefully. "I thought you might like to try it and see if it works," and he handed it to Crowley. "She said one of the angels she knew had made it for her."

He must mean Saint Cecilia, Crowley thought. "But how will I play it," he said, almost to himself, turning if over in his hands. It seemed alive; vibrating without a reason for it under his touch.

"I suppose you'd have to learn a little," Aziraphale said, "but I can get you some books on it." No doubt he had some, Crowley thought. Sometimes his bookshop seemed like Borges had imagined it; eternal, endless, containing everything. Neverending.

"I'll do youtube," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

The angel had never really gotten him a gift before, well, technically it was really a loan from heaven... but he meant the spirit of it, you know. Aziraphale knew little about any musical instruments, despite the angelic stereotype. Crowley had always felt himself to be above stereotypes, but in some ways he didn't think himself special. 

Love was hard, much more difficult than he'd thought. Aziraphale didn't say anything about their new-ish relationship, or rather, very new [and shocking to Crowley] activities. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say back, to do. Heaven had contacted the angel at one point, informing him that they'd heard that Hell and its agents were afraid to approach Crowley, as they assumed the angel had 'divinely corrupted' him and 'tortured him' into turning to God. 

Love was not torture, he thought, upon hearing it. Aziraphale was the only thing that made life worth living, other than his plants, the Bentley of course, and wine. His constancy and existence and how he was nice to Crowley sometimes were everything. He let him hang out in the bookshop almost endlessly, and had very rarely ever turned him out [just once in a while, but Crowley was allowed to go upstairs and watch television instead if he wanted and suggested it [there was an ancient one up there, unplugged and covered in dust.]

He had often gone up and slept, or read a book. It was a weird dependence that popped up randomly, he knew it was wrong to need to be nearby the angel sometimes. He'd deliberately tried to break himself free, going on trips alone, etc. By the early '90s, he'd given up almost completely. The 1790's, that is. 

A few years later they were inseparable. Crowley felt lucky that Aziraphale cared for no one and nothing but books. [Except Him upstairs, obviously.] He had no reason to be jealous at all. The angel wouldn't even deign to hang out with other angels. And yet he felt like he still needed to be on the lookout, just in case. 

He didn't begrudge his writer friends, as he'd had many in the past. They all exited the picture soon enough naturally. Crowley could share him that much. Besides, the two of them were always busy going to little book sales in the middle of nowhere, England. Aziraphale would have a restaurant pack them a lunch in a big picnic basket, Crowley would load up the car with everything they could need [but never used; he liked the routine of it], and they'd be off. 

He loved London, but being out in the rural country was fun too. You just had to have the right company. 

He was still calling Aziraphale 'angel' out of habit, despite how silly it seemed under the present circumstances. They didn't usually do gifts, he thought idly. 

He suddenly blinked into startled wakefulness. Was he supposed to do something in return?? Was this some kind of love-exchange-of-items or more of an angelic-thing? He stared at the ceiling of his apartment, unseeing. He had no idea. 

And what should he even get him, if that was the thing to do? Books were out as he knew .01% of what the angel knew in that area, so any gift there would be kindly received and set aside--forever. It would be too superficial and make him look badly. Wine was something he'd always brought, but they both did that, it wasn't special or good enough. 

He didn't care about things Crowley liked, like cars [antique], technology [bleeding, cutting edge stylish] or clothes/accessories [very, very cool.] He didn't particularly like snakes, so his specialty was out. Crowley briefly considered some type of feather related thing, but to be honest he had no idea if angels did any feather like things. On earth you didn't really feel them like you did in heaven [he'd recently found out; in hell everything felt distant, muddled and terrible in general.]

It's a cultural thing, he thought. What was angelic culture like nowadays? Had it changed since before the Fall of everyone? Not that he remembered that very well in the first place. 

He had a chilling thought. Maybe he would have to ask another angel for help. The thought was horrifying; he could only imagine what they would say, how they would treat him--and most importantly, how it would all get back to Aziraphale soon enough. They'd probably never see him as a real equal, just as Aziraphale's pet, which was fine with him, actually. He knew he was pretty much unspokenly under the angel's protection in a sense. He was unused to using heavenly power and to defending himself in that way. 

And who would he even ask? His mind raced, trying to find an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out the person to ask about what Aziraphale wanted was him, himself. He had been delighted with the question, to Crowley's surprise, and had listed out a ton of things he'd like to do. 

Soon enough, it was Christmas-time and they'd already done quite a few things. Most of them revolved around books, unsurprisingly, and visiting private collections and libraries -- Crowley didn't mind the excursions, especially since the grand estates often had enormous gardens to explore. 

Christmas was a very particular time for both of them -- in the past, they'd both been quite keen on avoiding any workplace holiday parties [whether they be Judaic, Christian, Muslim, Yule-related, or non-denominational.] They both insisted they were working every time. Of course, now Aziraphale had to help Crowley too get out of Heaven's intense social calendar. 

Crowley hadn't really expected that; they were mostly squares, why have so many parties? Thankfully the angel handled everything, so he didn't have to interact with any of the heavenly host, those douchebags, or the Metatron, who was even worse, he'd heard. [Aziraphale loved to complain about them all while drunk.]

The angel took advantage of the snow and festive atmosphere to practically close the bookshop, leaving a helpful sign on the front door that gave suggestions on where else to go. Inside, it was business as usual. Crowley had always secretly liked that Aziraphale was so uninterested in human things [other than tomes, scrolls, and texts], as it meant he didn't really subscribe to human holidays or their traditions. 

Apparently the angelic Christmas tradition stuff wasn't even on the day the humans had chosen, and Aziraphale assured him he'd show him what they did at the right time and date. Crowley had a suspicion it was more praying with a side of basking in the glorious and all-encompassing light of God. It did feel incredible, yes, but he was surprised that was what happened. 

It was weird to realize there wasn't any fear or punishment. That didn't seem to be on the table at all; he wasn't used to that. It was like he was safe, for once. Until the actual apocalypse went through, unfortunately, he thought a little glumly. He'd helped Aziraphale do some holiday miracles before, and handling the associated good works turned out to be very easy. Crowley liked rewarding the people who never thought they were going to get noticed, recognized or appreciated. 

He didn't do anything for the ones at the top. He kind of resented success with no struggle, but he liked a comeback story. Except for the angel being so goody-goody, of course. Aziraphale went more for the tragic stories, the ill and hurt. He was a natural healer in a way. Crowley'd never said anything about it, but he was very nurturing when he wanted to be. With humans it was from a distance, as he didn't care to get up close and personal with them.

Crowley kind of felt himself better at that. To a degree, of course. He liked the angel the way he was, a little bit of a distant scholar. The only earthly thing he was into other than books and food [and wine, and being unstylish with a vengance] was Crowley himself.

It was the best to lounge in the back of the shop on an old couch while drinking some incredible wine. He had always had questions and doubts, but he did enjoy Aziraphale's certainty from time to time. It made him feel like maybe there was some order in the world he just couldn't see; that it was better than he suspected. He took another sip of a nice red. In ancient times it had been a bit pine-y, but modern wine had come a long way. Aziraphale was deep into a rant about Raphael. "Why, why is he always trying to talk to me, hmmm? I'm not injured, 'm fine. See?!" He threw his hands out, sloshing his glass rather dangerously, for Crowley to see and affirm he was indeed in perfect health.

Crowley nodded. "Lookss good." He took one of the angel's hands to inspect it. It looked normal.

Aziraphale shook his head, already onto his next complaint. "He's always sayin' to me he's goin' to talk to humans, and do I want to hang out? Do I??" He glared at Crowley to express his discontent with the notion.

"Y're busy," he contributed, to which the angel fiercely nodded. "Books," Crowley added, as he felt that summed it up.

"Mmm hmm," Aziraphale agreed, pouring them both another glass. It was nice to just get drunk and not think about sobering up at all. That made it more fun. 

"So the jock one's too sporty, the other guy is too ob, ob, -- lame, yuppie," Crowley said, trying to consider the main points. Aziraphale had already taken him to heaven to see everything famous, but they had avoided other angels. It was easy, as he'd just worn the clothes Aziraphale gave him and covered his head with part of the robe, like the people before the Romans had [that was still in style up there.] 

The angel's shitlist was rather long. Only a couple of angels made the cut: Sandalphon, Saraqael, and Remiel. Remiel was apparently the best of all three, though spoke only in metaphors, Crowley was told, other than Selaphiel, who also had an interest in literary criticism and interpretation. 

Crowley hadn't realized that the angel actually had angelic friends. He'd never really talked about it either way, to be honest. "They don't wanna come to down here, you know," he explained. "But I don't wanna go up and spend forever up there talking to them, it's fun, they are okay, but I lose track of time. I make them write me letters and I do too. Down here's only be here for a little while, compa, comp-- you know? But I can go home all the time. After this is gone."

He nodded seriously. Aziraphale grimaced and squeezed his hand, which was still holding his. Crowley'd forgotten about it. Soon, relatively speaking, the earth would indeed be gone. The apocalypse would happen again eventually, somehow. Then there would be an eternity of time to speak to the few cool angels in heaven.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale was never interested in paying attention to the world, or to new things. Wars came and went without him caring about it, so wrapped up in whatever new cuneiform tablet, scroll, manuscript or book had just come out. 

Crowley envied him his natural detachment. He felt like he couldn't turn off his emotions, they were running water he could not control or cross. ... Gave a certain irony to the old idea of demons not being able to cross moving water. The angel barely seemed to see mortals, much less feel he should intervene in their lives -- but Crowley had been unable to turn his head away, gruesomely captivated by their suffering, and then suffering the side effects. 

He had often been unable to block out the thoughts of what he'd seen without alcohol, or had chosen to sleep for literal ages to try not to have to think about it. He had concluded that he simply didn't have enough of a passion for anything besides horticulture; if he had, he'd be able to be subsumed in it, like the angel was in the written word. Nothing mattered to Aziraphale, unless it was some new [or classic, or esoteric] situation in the food world, the book world, or, well, his world. 

That is to say, Crowley himself. If he knew anyone, he knew Aziraphale. He wasn't proud of it, but he technically had spied on the angel many times. The official excuse was watching the enemy, and the real reason was more of a combination of loneliness, boredom and worry. Aziraphale was too innocent sometimes, too simple. He couldn't let his goodness be his downfall, so he slowly began watching him -- following him -- to pass the time. 

Not all the time, of course. There were pound coins to glue to the ground, wine to buy [so he could bring it to their bookshop drinking sessions together], cinema to watch, plants to deal with, work -- ugh, and sleep. Mmmm. Wine, sleep and the angel: those were his favorite things. 

In some ways, Aziraphale was his world. His only friend, his brother, his comrade. It was so much more than just a silly, superficial interest. It was almost scary -- he needed him. He didn't think it worked the other way. The only thing Aziraphale loved more than God was books, and that idol was metaphorically getting close to edging out everything else. 

And now that one thing didn't separate them, he reminded himself. It felt weird to remember there had been a change; it felt natural now. Now, his friend was openly lounging [more like snuggling when Crowley wanted to] with him on quite a few surfaces, and happily acquiescing to long, pointless rides in the Bentley up and down the country. 

Crowley really wanted to see the very top for some reason. So they went. There was no hesitation now on Aziraphale's part, he was very willing. No matter what was suggested. His favorite thing was really just sleeping while he read beside him, and Aziraphale would put his hand in his hair, on the back of his neck, on his shoulder. It felt like pure happiness. But there was a slight worry mark in his mind.

It was just the regret, for all of it: he could have had this before?! It made him furious, but at himself, so it came out as a kind of hysteric sadness. He made sure to retreat to his new apartment in those moments, when he could feel it coming on. 

He didn't like to over-drink alone, so he had turned to an old pastime of his -- spying on what Aziraphale was reading [at least one of the few dozen things he had going] and then trying to read it himself. Happily, books on tape had been invented by him just for his own use, and were still going strong. Before that it had been harder, but it had made him feel connected to Aziraphale somehow. Even though they never discussed books in terms of Crowley contributing his take or opinions, as he didn't admit to reading much. 

[And because Crowley expected all Aziraphale's rare books to be audio books, they were, no matter how obscure.]

He still clung to that idea of a tie between them. He tried the whole music thing to see if it affected the plants, but no luck. He both couldn't play and the plants seemed more confused then anything else. 

Living in your dream was a little odd. It's the goal, the impossible thing to reach for -- and when you have it you quickly realize you weren't prepared. The amount of love the angel gives and shows him is just too much; he has to turn his head, make sure he doesn't react emotionally [that is, by letting some tears get out.] He knows that's strange. At least the other doesn't question him about it. Aziraphale is great at letting him have his pride a lot of the time. 

He continues to do a little work, once in a while, since he's switched teams, but it's mostly pro bono. That is, he doesn't tell the angel he does it, and he doesn't claim he did it on reports to upstairs. It's like a nice secret that's just his. And yes, he does stop in to antique and rare bookstores and auction houses. 

If anyone found him, he could argue he was trying to subtly convince the sellers to donate their profit to charity or some such. But he was actually looking at the books. He had gotten to the know Aziraphale's favorites pretty well over the years, but that was the limit of his interest before. Now he wanted to learn more. It took quite a few visits for him to realize that about himself. 

It turns out it was quite complex, the whole book thing. Incunabulum this, codex that. It was a good distraction, as he couldn't be at the bookshop all the time. The angel and he still spent time alone, and he had read in several modern magazines that this was essential. He also had another project, but that was really secret, from everyone. It was the reintroduction of old plants of all types across the globe. It would be unacceptable for all the types of wheat, all the tomato varieties, etc, to be gone forever and just the major strains survive. He was technically a consultant on the National Seed Strategy for Rehabilitation and Restoration, for one. Among others.


End file.
